If you are unlucky enough to come to prison, at reception you will have a NOMIS number generated. That’s a National Offender Management Information System number by the way. Like a registration number they are an indicator of your relative experience level within prison. When the system was created the first prisoner would have the NOMIS number A0001AA, the second A0002AA and so on. After the AA suffix ran out the numbers would continue with A0001AB and so forth. The system is currently churning out numbers ending somewhere around A0001ES (mid 2021) but it is worth noting that each letter change represents 10,000 new prisoners (I use that distinction as some will be remanded but acquitted at trial – so they are not offenders).
Your NOMIS number is unique to you and you will retain it on subsequent frequent flyer visits to prison. The NOMIS number is critical to distinguish between plethorae of John Smiths, Ian Williams and Rob Davies so when you are asked your details it’s usual to recite your name and NOMIS number. So for the last decade this has been my world. Until June of 2021 when a young lady asked me for my name and number I had a broad smile under my covid mask.
I was on my first ROTL – that is Release on Temporary Licence. After a decade of model behaviour and extensive offending behavioural work I was allowed out to a local city for 6 hours door-to-door. The Saturday morning came, my Covid test was clear and at 10-45 I walked down the hill from the prison towards the car park. I felt like the guy being told to walk away from an armed man – waiting to hear the gun shot, but it never came. I saw the reg no for my pal’s car and looked up to see the big grin on his face.
Still no alarms as I sat into the passenger seat and put on my seatbelt. No blue flashing lights as we exited the car park and before long we were out on the main road and the lovely sat nav lady was telling us where to go. After about ten minutes driving I could feel my tension ease and I started to realise I had finally reached this huge landmark – it was real. When I had been sentenced I hadn’t dared dream of the outside world.
We started chatting about what I hoped to do. Simple really, buy some clothes and get some food then make sure I was back with a margin. The rules were simple. I had to stick to the itinerary I had set out. I had been issued with a mobile phone that I had to keep with me and switched on at all times. No alcohol, no licenced premises where alcohol was the primary function (pubs with grub were out but restaurants that served wine were ok). DOn’t contact victims, no posting to social media and no speaking to journalists. At anytime the prison could call me and visit to check I was abiding by the rules. No problem to me!
We parked and stepped out into glorious sunshine. I was a people again! I took in the smells of petrol, pollution and way too much perfume and deodorant. Really people, what the hell are you hiding?
Other than that, not a lot had changed really. People are generally rude and self absorbed, buried in mobile phones. The good thing is that I wasn’t worried about standing out as an obvious convict; somebody who doesn’t know what the societal norms are. Covid proved to be a great leveller in that regard – everybody was a bit confused about which doors to use, masks on or off and the directions within shops.
My pal and I chatted and periodically burst into giggles, which seemed to be mostly deemed inappropriate judging by the looks we got, but we had a laugh. We shopped for two hours and I got everything that I had planned. It was nice just having normal transactions – I was reassured that I hadn’t forgotten the protocols.
Then it came to food. What was it to be? Maccy D’s, KFC or Dominos perhaps? Bollocks to that. I wanted something nice – that required a napkin, knife and fork. My pal insisted on paying – except when I mentioned the Ivy rooms, but we compromised on a decent looking restaurant. As we walked in the server approached us and thankfully she had room for us. She asked us to scan the QR code with our smart phones for contact tracing and my pal was happy to oblige.
“I’m sorry,” said I, “but I don’t do smart phones. Too much big brother for me.” I lied quickly.
“Well would it be OK for us to have your name and number.” she offered.
I was happy to oblige, but this time, after my name the number I recited started with 079. After a delicious lunch and two double espressos we made our way back to the prison with a half hour to spare. I was checked in, searched and breathalysed before being signed off to return to the billet. Back on the wing I ran into Mick, “How’d you get on Moose? First one wasn’t it?”
“Yes the first. And it was great thanks. In truth I’m kind of surprised that it started to feel so normal so quickly.” I replied.
“I know what you mean mate,” said Mick, “But I guess you never forget how to be free.”
